Complaints
by BluStrawberri
Summary: The five times Sherlock complained (and the one time he didn't). Johnlock JohnxSherlock M for a reason!


**A/N:** Hello, all! I've become a recent fan (read: obsessed with) Sherlock, and I figured I'd make a fic to let off some 'feels' steam. I tried to get Sherlock's mind down (it's actually harder than I thought it was), but please forgive me if I make a few mistakes and OOCness. I'm not a very logical person, after all. Also, thumbs up for 5 and 1 fic (I have a soft spot for them, honestly). I know they're usually short, but this kind of had a mind of its own once I started. I also need to find a Brit-picker, since my favorite fandoms are now located in England. Anyone interested?

**Warnings:** M for sex, language, and Sherlock being an ass. So basically, all you'd expect from a Sherlock fanfiction.

OoO

_1: Emotions_

John is doing it again. _Heavy breathing, racing pulse, dilated pupils_. A not-so-subtle bobbing of his Adams apple in an attempt to swallow the saliva now accumulating in his mouth. He's excited, and it's so painfully obvious that Sherlock has the urge to cringe.

But he doesn't. Emotions are for the weak, and the strong eat the weak, and the even stronger eat the already strong. Sharks and plankton swim around in his mind and make his head dizzy. Unnecessary to the case: _Bam, deleted._

Sherlock is cold and sharp, like a steel dagger headed for your face. John is round and pliant, his blue eyes telling all of his stories and secrets without him even uttering one word. It annoys Sherlock, and he tells him so.

"Would you please stop being so bloody _emotional_? It's interrupting my thought process."

John looks up from his breakfast, the knife in his hand stilled in its course of spreading jam on a (slightly burnt, the smell assaults his nostrils) piece of toast. John's mouth is hanging open, which makes Sherlock want to stuff the whole jar of strawberry jam into his gob. The image makes him smirk, but it is gone in a flash and he fixes his face to show irritation. Despite his skill as a doctor, John responds better to humanity than a blank stare. Like a toddler, he requires the extra effort to please. Not that Sherlock decrees it as his life goal to please the man; it just makes things easier and quieter.

"What are you on about?" the dirty blonde asks, raising an eyebrow and frowning. "I'm just making toast. Nothing too emotional about that, yeah?"

"Well, if you could do it without your eyes making _love_ to it, it would be much appreciated," Sherlock grits, additionally annoyed at having to explain everything to the doctor. Ah, what it must be like to have a boringly _normal_ intellect. _That's not true_, his traitorous mind supplies for him, _he can keep up with you. It's how you work_. Bam, deleted.

"I think I would have to marry it, first," John jokes, a grin on his face and a chuckle under his breath.

"_Please_. I am aware that current times make it perfectly acceptable to fornicate. In fact, I could share a few examples—"

John cuts him off, clearing his throat. "Okay, okay. I really don't need to know this. You need to lighten up sometimes, mate."

"I am not your _mate_," slips out of Sherlock's mouth, a clearly defensive tactic. A look of hurt flashes across his flatmate's face, and he knows that the man will be angry too early in the morning for the detective to bear, so he adds, "But if it makes you happy, I would be more than willing to locate a suitable priest."

The smile that shows up on John's face makes Sherlock relax marginally more (though he wasn't aware of his muscles tensing in the first place). "I'll get the rings, then."

"Indeed," Sherlock hums and resumes his thoughts. If a small smile tugs up the corners of his mouth, neither comments.

OoO

_2. Serenades_

One thing that Sherlock quickly learns about his roommate is that he sings in the shower. Loudly. At first it annoys the detective, so he drags himself to the bathroom door and yells over the running shower, "Would you _please_ stop doing that?"

"Doing _what_?" echoes throughout the room, muffled by the door but also amplified by the small room's harmonics.

"Singing."

Sherlock hears the faucet turn and the cascade of water stop. He hears John's feet padding up to the doorway, and he opens his mouth to yell, but suddenly the door opens and Sherlock's mouth drops a millimeter.

"It's not a crime, is it?" comes out of John's mouth, but Sherlock isn't looking at _that _part. Icy blue eyes travel across an expanse of smooth (though slightly hairy) chest, around to a faded, white scar on the shoulder, and then follow a droplet of water as it slides down slightly pudgy hips and disappears beneath a crimson towel.

Sherlock catches himself and straightens up. Rewind conversation, hit play. "It _should_ be."

The blonde frowns. "I'm not _that _bad, am I?"

"No," Sherlock says truthfully, and also because he's aware it's common decency (which John keeps repeating to him ad verbatim). "I'm just trying to think, and you're distracting me."

"Then I won't do it when you're thinking," John promises, and fails to hide a smile. He is _amused_, Sherlock realizes in horror.

"So, never," the taller man puffs up his chest in an attempt to look more intimidating.

"I'll try," John's smile is in his voice and his face, "but we'll see."

"Yes," Sherlock clears his throat as another rivulet of water slips beneath crimson fabric. "See to it that you do."

As he exits John's bedroom and enters the hall, he hears the distinct sound of the shower starting up and a baritone voice flowing from the room. Sherlock didn't lie when he complimented John's voice; the blonde had a nice intonation to his voice while talking (despite the occasional crack), and it made sense that his singing voice would be no different. Sherlock realizes his fingers are drumming on his thigh, and he halts the action with a frown. If he starts to hum lightly, it's because the bloody song is stuck and will be stuck in his head all day, no thanks to his annoying flatmate.

OoO

_3. Lips_

It's been three days, and Sherlock can't seem to get the image of a half-naked John out of his head. It's completely distracting him from his current case, though he's already solved it (the butler did it) and the other one (a classic case of a matrimonial affair). If he's honest, the thought of John's toned body seems to make his blood rush and his mouth dry. However, Sherlock doesn't like to be entirely truthful with himself, and so he continues on.

On the fourth day, Sherlock groans in frustration and decides to go out. He announces to the newspaper in John's hands, "I'm leaving."

"In _this_ dreadful weather? _Where_?" is the reply. Two more questions than Sherlock requires.

"To the pub," he intones slowly, raising his eyebrows to prove his point (though he knows that John can't possibly see them). It helps, anyway.

The doctor sighs and folds up his paper. Blue eyes regard him warily. "You want to go…outside. To the pub. In the rain."

"Yes, yes," Sherlock says, rolling his eyes. "Now if you're quite done mocking my eccentricities, I'm heading out."

The raven-haired detective jumps out of his seat in a decidedly _masculine_ and not overly excited gesture. He grabs his coat and scarf and is almost out the door when he suddenly stops. Turns around. "Courtesy indicates that I should offer you the chance to go with me. Will you?"

John laughs, and Sherlock's ears ring pleasantly from the sound. "Well, if _courtesy_ is dictating your actions, I shouldn't refuse. Just let me get my umbrella."

"Won't need it; the rain will stop in exactly five point six minutes."

"Where would I be without your constant observational skills?" John muttered to himself, though Sherlock could clearly hear the words with his acute hearing.

"Probably dead or whingeing about your bum leg," Sherlock supplies for him, and smirks when John rolls his eyes.

"Let's just get on with it," the doctor sighs, and soon he is bundled up and they begin the trek to the bar.

Exactly eighty minutes and ten seconds later (roughly, because Sherlock seems to be having a hard time keeping track), they are huddled in the corner of the pub, and Sherlock deduces that John is reaching his limit. The dirty-blonde previously ingested approximately four shots (which Sherlock had to mirror because no one, _no one_ outlasts the detective), two mojitos, and a tasty drink of unknown origins (by that time, Sherlock was having a hard time deducing anything that didn't have the word "alcohol" in its name) that the bartender put in front of them "for being such an entertaining couple". Being a good sport, John didn't correct him (and neither did Sherlock, if it meant a few more free drinks). So, all in all, they are decidedly plastered.

Well, not Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes never gets _drunk_; it's a statistical impossibility. Too many clues vanish from his mind while inebriated, and things pass him by in an infuriatingly fast rate. So his senses are just dulled because he miscalculated the effects of alcohol on his empty stomach. But only _slightly_.

John is talking, which Sherlock tunes out because the words he picks out are 'work', 'blog', and 'Molly', so therefore it's not interesting. For some unknown and baffling reason, Sherlock finds his gaze transfixed upon John's lips: The slightly pink (and girly) tint, the way they move and form words as John talks, and how Sherlock would really like to kiss them now, thank you very much.

…Wait, _what_? When did _that_ thought pop into his mind? While Sherlock admits that there is a certain…_chemistry_ between the pair of them (as most of the modern world is so kind to point out), thoughts like these have never occurred to the detective (if they did, well, bam! Delet—_oh, you liar)._ The work almost always takes precedence over any feelings of sadness, or remorse, or disgust, or lo—no. This is lust, pure and simple, brought upon by one too many drinks, although Sherlock is certainly _not_ drunk. John just happens to be the closest object to Sherlock, which is why he wants to lean forward and capture those plump lips with his own and—NO!

Despite the inner voice screaming for him to stop, Sherlock finds his body leaning forward of its own accord. Approximately four seconds later brings Sherlock's face a hairbreadth away from John's, and the detective can _feel_ his blogger's breath on his lips and the sharp intake of breath against his mouth. Sherlock swallows, his mouth suddenly dry, and presses their lips together.

_3…2…1…explosion!_ But it doesn't happen, much to Sherlock's surprise. At first, John is unmoving, probably still in shock. Sherlock waits for the inevitable push on his shoulders, and has an apology all laid out that involves copious amounts of begging and pleading (because this is probably one of the rare moments that he feels remorse and cares enough to act on it). But the push never comes. In fact, John's lips start to move and _oh_.

Of course Sherlock has kissed someone before. Despite his virgin status (which he really should change sometime) and his apparent asexuality (perhaps "ditto", as John would say), Sherlock is no stranger to puberty and hormones and sudden urges to bring girls (okay, maybe boys, too) behind a bush. But kissing John is just so much _more_ than quick snogs where the teacher can't see.

Under the sour taste of alcohol, John tastes like a balance of the sweets he always ingests and a hint of musk, more befitting of a man. John's lips slide against his so easily, and the dirty-blonde suddenly takes charge, deepening the kiss and eliciting a small (miniscule, really) groan from the detective's lips.

When John reaches to thread a hand through Sherlock's suddenly damp curls, the detective snaps back into his mind and pulls away sharply. The look of hurt on John's face is hard to miss.

"You…" the dirty-blonde stutters. "Why?"

"I…" for once, Sherlock runs out of words. "That was awful."

John raises an eyebrow, and Sherlock _knows_ that look—knows it and hates it. It almost mirrors his own when he finds a case: Surprise, then intrigue, and then finally a darkened gaze, curious and wanting of information. The look of utter amusement sitting on John's face makes Sherlock's skin crawl (although not unpleasantly, he finds).

"Really, now?" John asks, and his voice lacks any slur. Really, how does John _do_ that? Unless…he wasn't completely drunk to begin with. Well, shit.

"Yes," Sherlock says, and clears his throat. He goes for a sneer. "Utterly horrific. Who _have_ you been practicing on, your mother?"

It's not a _real_ insult, but Sherlock's feeling defensive, and it makes him angry to see that not only does the insult fail to reach the dirty-blonde, it has the opposite effect. John snorts and tries to hide a smile. "Well, now, you've caught me. I must be a _horrible_ kisser to make you moan like that. Or was that all an act?"

"Well—I—" Sherlock tries to grasp for a response, but his brain supplies none. He _could_ blame it on the drink (which he had to admit is increasingly probable), but that would be admitting weakness. So he straightens his shoulders and tries, "It was an experiment, nothing more."

"I see. Did you get the answers you were looking for?" John suddenly sounds distant, and his mouth twitches in a small frown.

_No_. "Yes," Sherlock lies. All the action brought about were more questions that float around in Sherlock's superior brain like gnats in a field.

"Then I propose," John leans forward conspiratorially, but Sherlock can see the nervousness behind the bold act, "that we have a few more…experiments. Just for the sake of science."

In Sherlock's (inebriated) mind, the logic sounds appealing. Experiments never work well with one trial. After all, to prove a hypothesis, more data is needed. He clears his throat. "Yes."

John's dominant façade slips, and he looks shocked. "Yes? To what?"

"To collecting more data," Sherlock explains, gaining confidence. "I have to admit, your experiment sounds most appealing. In the name of science."

"Yes, _science_," John echoes, and his smile is back.

"But we need conditions," Sherlock says, nodding to himself for the brilliant idea.

"Go on, then."

"Yes, well," Sherlock tries to search his mind for acceptable words. "This is an experiment only. No repetition is needed after today. When I say enough, we stop, and we won't talk about it again. Does that sound agreeable to you?"

"Definitely," John nods, and Sherlock finds his gaze directed at the dirty-blonde's mouth as a bubblegum-pink tongue makes a swipe across the bruised lips. "It's a deal, then. Shake on it?"

"Yes," Sherlock nods to show his agreement, and reaches out a hand. They shake, and suddenly Sherlock is pulled forward and almost loses his balance, crashing into John's chest.

"I didn't say I would play fair," the dirty-blonde whispers in his ear when Sherlock opens his mouth. The shorter man's breath tickles Sherlock's earlobe and he can't suppress a shiver.

"Cheater," Sherlock tries to say, but it comes out as a whisper, much to his embarrassment.

"Your rules," John says, and pushes a very confused Sherlock away. "But not here. You need to have a perfect atmosphere for an experiment, yeah?"

"Yes," Sherlock says, recovering from his shock. "Indeed. Baker Street?"

"Baker Street," John repeats, and they collect their coats and head out. Sherlock briefly wonders what he's gotten himself into, and then decides to refrain from thinking for the rest of the night.

OoO

_4. Touch_

They arrive back at 221B in a decidedly untidy fashion, all hands and thumbs as they stumble up the steps (quietly, so as to not wake Mrs. Hudson). John grabs Sherlock's hand and leads him up the too-loud stairs, their hands threading together as if on an afterthought. Sherlock's heart is humming in his ears and he's pretty sure it's not entirely from the drink.

Sherlock doesn't know how they end up on his bed because _honestly_, John's is most certainly closer to the entryway. John flops down on his back on the duvet (he didn't even bother to take off his shoes), and beckons Sherlock with a curled finger.

Sherlock shakes his head. _No_. "We might do something we'll regret."

"Like what?" the doctor asks, and the slur in his voice is unnoticeable to anyone besides Sherlock. John's blue eyes are glazed over, and his Adams apple bobs as he swallows. Sherlock watches the lump in fascination.

Pulling his eyes away, Sherlock sighs. "From my calculations, around twenty one possibilities exist for our utter humiliation in the morning. Twenty-five, if you keep looking at me like that."

John blinks and swallows. Sherlock's eyes once again land on his throat. "You think too much."

"As I'm told," Sherlock sighs, giving a wry smile.

John props himself up on his forearms. "I thought you wanted to experiment."

"I do," Sherlock trails off, frowning.

"Having second thoughts?" John supplies for him, somehow reading aloud the thoughts that Sherlock doesn't know how to express at the current moment.

"No!" Sherlock says quickly and unthinkingly. He winces at the harsh tone, clearing his throat. "I mean, maybe we should slow down. You're drunk and not in your right mind."

John sits up fully, his gaze intense if not slightly unfocused. "_I'm_ drunk? Sherlock, I hate to break it to you, but _you're_ not too sober, either. Now's not the time for thinking," John pauses, sucking in a deep breath. "Now is the time for _acting_."

And act he does, because suddenly the John's reaching up and grabbing Sherlock by the scarf, pulling him down for a rough and needy kiss. Sherlock groans, willing his mind to be quiet for just one moment so he can enjoy the feeling of the dirty-blonde's lips on his own. John pulls away and, on instinct, Sherlock leans forward to taste more of this forbidden fruit. Miscalculating the distance, Sherlock trips and half-falls onto the shorter man and they both grunt.

"Not the most elegant of swans," John mumbles, smirking when Sherlock glares at him.

"Shut up," the detective commands simply, and proceeds to lean down and capture the shorter man's lips once more. John's hands tangle in Sherlock's curls while his legs spread apart slightly, as if of their own accord. Sherlock maneuvers himself so his body rests in-between them, gasping as he feels the dirty-blonde's apparent erection through the thin fabric of his trousers. Willing himself to pull back, Sherlock hovers above John in a surprising moment of clarity. "You sure?"

John looks up at the detective, his gaze not as unfocused as it ought to be, and his voice lacks any trace of uncertainty when he replies, "Yes."

"Are you, really? We don't have to do this."

"Stop thinking, Sherlock," John sighs, closing his eyes for a second. When he opens them, his eyes pierce straight into Sherlock's soul like a knife. "I've never been more sure in my life. So please, continue."

Doubt erased (for the moment), Sherlock leans forward and capture's John's lips. It's then that he realizes he has absolutely no clue what to do. Sure, he's read up on sex (quite thoroughly, in fact), but the facts get tangled up in the onslaught of emotions currently fogging up the detective's brain.

John seems to realize this, and flips them over so that the shorter man is on top. He pushes Sherlock up against the headboard in a surprisingly fluid motion. Sherlock winces slightly at the pain, and John reaches a soothing hand to the back of Sherlock's head. The hand slides down his neck, tracing the bumps of Sherlock's spine as he arches into the touch with a gasp.

Like his hand, John's mouth moves down: Across the cutting cheekbones, down a chiseled chin, and finally stops at the junction of the detective's neck. Without so much as a pause, John bites down gently on the pale flesh, eliciting a deep groan from Sherlock. It's not enough to draw blood, but it feels surprisingly pleasurable, and Sherlock shivers when an apologetic tongue soothes the new bruise.

John's hand stops at the curve of Sherlock's spine and switches directions, moving sideways across his hips and along the flat plane of the taller man's stomach. Inching down steadily, teasing fingers slide lower and lower until they stop at the waistband of Sherlock's trousers. Sherlock sucks in a breath, and John looks up.

"Are _you_ sure?" John asks, biting his lip and suddenly looking uncertain.

"Hell of a time to ask," Sherlock sneers, and then regrets it immediately when hurt flashes across the dirty-blonde's face. His expression clears and he hastily adds, "Sorry, habit. Yes, I'm sure."

John's gaze searches his face, and Sherlock realizes that they're never going to get _anywhere_ if they keep on talking, so he leans up and kisses John. He makes a small noise of triumph when John seems to snap out of his uncertainty and one-handedly manages to unzip Sherlock's fly, releasing the detective's straining member. Sherlock shivers as the chilly air of his room hits him, and closes his eyes.

"No," comes John's voice from above him. "I want you to see this."

Hesitantly, Sherlock obeys, opening his eyes to look up at the dirty-blonde. John's face is flushed, his pupils dilated and glazed over with lust and an unreadable emotion (Sherlock's never quite encountered this one, and he's currently too far gone to deduce, so he stores it in his memory palace for later). John stares into the detective's icy-blue eyes as he slips his hand down to Sherlock's throbbing erection.

Sherlock hisses at the contact, blood rushing south and his heartbeat thrumming in his ears. He tries not to arch into the touch, to maintain some semblance of control, but it feels so good that his body moves on its own and pushes into John's hand. John rests his hand there for a second, and then starts pumping, his eyes never leaving Sherlock's.

Sherlock has explored his body before; sexual frustration reaches even the seemingly asexual detective. But it feels so much better to have someone else taking the wheel. Briefly, Sherlock wonders why that is; he's always prided himself on his control, the ability to school his expression as to not betray his emotions. Now, he feels himself falling apart, just from a hand. Sherlock tries not to think.

The only sounds in the room are Sherlock's whimpers and John's heavy breathing. The detective groans and bites his lip hard, willing himself not to come. Really, he thought he would last longer than this. It's only been two minutes (and a half), and already he's feeling heat pool in his belly. Though his body complains, he reaches a hand down to grip John's wrist, halting the man's actions.

The blogger raises an eyebrow. Sherlock bites his lip. "Stop, or else…"

"Yeah. Okay," John says, swallowing. He removes his hand. "How far do you want to take this?"

"Experiments sometimes necessitate an extended trial," Sherlock says vaguely, but John seems to get the message.

John bites his lip. "Okay. Just tell me if it gets to be too much."

Instead of saying the comeback that lingers on the tip of his tongue, Sherlock bites back his response and nods. No need to get John angry. Not when this is going in an extremely favorable direction.

John reaches up to unbutton Sherlock's purple shirt, sliding the silky fabric down broad shoulders. Sherlock slips out of the sleeves and watches, transfixed, as John shrugs out of his striped jumper and kicks off his jeans. John brings both of his hands down to slowly slide Sherlock's trousers (and pants) down his legs, the detective helping him by kicking them off when they reach his ankles. Soon, they are both naked, and Sherlock takes a moment to appreciate this fact.

John looks unlike anything Sherlock has seen, either in his research or his fantasies (if he's being honest, which he seems infuriatingly drawn to do at the current moment). John is surprisingly toned (maybe it's all the running around that Sherlock forces upon him), and his skin is slightly tanned from the summer. Sherlock knows about the scars, but to see them close up makes a shiver run down his spine. White lines (most jagged and uneven) cover the expanse of John's chest, almost like marks one would make to count out the days. Unthinkingly, Sherlock raises a hand to touch a starburst-shaped pattern on John's shoulder. The shorter man tenses.

"Scars aren't evil," Sherlock finds himself saying, his tone quiet but firm. "They mean you've gone through something and come out alive."

"Are you being…nice?" John asks slowly, raising an eyebrow. As always, his face betrays him, and Sherlock can see the softness in his gaze.

"Don't get used to it," Sherlock sniffs, but he can't help the fondness that trickles out of the words. "I just stated a simple fact."

John's sudden smile makes Sherlock's chest constrict painfully and his skin feel tight on his body (a side effect of the alcohol, for sure). "Right."

And then John leans in to capture Sherlock's lips in a kiss. _Something's different,_ Sherlock thinks as a tongue slips past his lips. He can't figure it out, and it bothers him. Why now? Why, of all times, does his mind decide to have _feelings_ again, and why does it bother him so much to think of the smile that John wore, and the look of lo—no. Stop. _Emotions are for the weak, and the strong eat the weak, and the even stronger eat the already strong._

Lost in his thoughts, Sherlock suddenly realizes that John has pulled away and is looking around searchingly. He suddenly understands. "Lotion. Second drawer in the nightstand."

John opens his mouth to say something, but closes it and shakes his head. As he leans over to open the drawer, he mutters, "Right. Asexual."

"Excuse me?"

"Never mind."

Sherlock is about to say something intellectually insulting, but John comes back into view holding a small bottle of lavender lotion, and the words die on his throat. _This is it_, he thinks, _the point of no return_. He could say stop; just one word, and this would end. Part of him is screaming to get away, because he's always been good at that: Evading things. The other part of him, however, is whispering soothing words like _try it,_ and _don't worry_, and _it's just John._ But that's the problem: _It's John_. His whole entire life at this moment can be summed up in one word: _John_.

Sherlock feels a pressure on his entrance, and he tenses up slightly. He resists the urge to look down, because there's only so much he can take at this moment. So he closes his eyes, and John lets him. The dirty-blonde whispers soothingly as he inserts a short digit up to the knuckle, and Sherlock bites back his whimper because _really_, he's a man, dammit. John waits for him to adjust (since when did the shorter man know how to _do_ things like this, let alone be _proficient_ at it?), and then curls his finger just _so_ to that spot and fuck, it feels astronomically _amazing_.

Sherlock groans appreciatively and relaxes marginally more. His mind attempts to narrate what exactly he's feeling in order to exact some sort of control, some semblance of intellect. He wants to say something, but the words die in his throat as another finger is added, the digits stroking and twisting and curling around inside of him.

At the third finger, Sherlock can barely take it anymore, and he exhales with force, willing John to telepathically understand, because they have such a connection that they don't need paltry words to communicate. John gets the memo, and withdraws the fingers, Sherlock grunting at the loss.

When John lines his member with Sherlock's entrance, the detective can't help but open his eyes. John looks nervous, biting his lip with an almost imperceptible trembling in his body. In an oddly human move, Sherlock lifts his hand to cup John's face, his knuckles caressing the square jawline and the hint of stubble. John relaxes into the touch, and Sherlock finds his voice. "Aren't _I_ supposed to be the one that's nervous?"

John chuckles breathily. "Well, you're not the one deflowering his best mate in a completely drunken stupor."

Sherlock knows he could be himself and shoot back a great one liner, but his more human side knows that a delicate situation calls for a delicate answer. "It's _me_, John. If I wanted to stop, I would have said so."

"True," John concedes. Sherlock can see the wheels turning, and the dirty-blonde nods to himself before adopting a more determined persona. "All right. Tell me if it hurts."

"I'm afraid that's going to be an inevitable outcome, my dear Watson," Sherlock can't help but say, because he _is_ Sherlock.

John rolls his eyes. "Right. I forgot you were a complete asshole."

"A _high-functioning_ asshole," Sherlock corrects cheekily, and they both grin. The tension lightens, and the air suddenly becomes breathable again.

John's expression changes into a more serious appearance, and Sherlock's grin fades into a grimace as the dirty-blonde slowly pushes into him. The burn is not altogether unpleasant, but the sensation of being filled is a strange experience for a man who barely considered the benefits of sexual pleasure prior to this. Whatever _this_ is. Sherlock knows the changes, the consequences. The attempt to delete the thought fails, so he stores it in his memory palace under a desk like a piece of used chewing gum (forgotten until it catches on your trousers and turns into a bloody mess). He gulps audibly, closes his eyes, and allows himself to _feel_.

"You all right?" comes John's voice, and Sherlock can imagine the worried expression on his friend's (lover's?) face. He smiles around the pain at the thought.

"Yes," he replies honestly, because now he's used to the sensation and he _really wishes John would hurry up_. "Now _move_."

And move John does: Slowly at first but picking up speed at Sherlock's urging. Sherlock abandons all semblance of volume control (his thoughts turn to Mrs. Hudson hearing, but he quickly backtracks because this is _not_ the time to be worried about noise complaints). Groans slip out of his mouth like pebbles into a river, the flood of emotions and feelings and thoughts inching up the bed. He is drowning in pleasure, leaving him gasping and wanting more. Time suspends; thoughts die down. _John_, he thinks, _John._

Sherlock's legs wrap around John's torso for more leverage; he is greedy now, craving more skin, more connection. His member weeps for contact, and he slides his hand down to palm himself in desperation. He needs release, but at the same time he doesn't want this to end (endings mean beginnings, and he's not quite sure _what_ he wants to begin). His heightened senses impede his endurance: For once they are unwanted yet he appreciates them all the same. He wonders how John feels, to have his senses dulled by overuse and general anxiety. Sherlock opens his eyes, curious.

John's face is screwed up in pleasure, his eyes closed and his face so close that Sherlock can see every individual blonde eyelash. On instinct, Sherlock grasps the back of John's neck with his free hand, and his blogger's eyes open.

It's not about the experiment, Sherlock realizes. It's not about the thrill, or the impulse to try new things, or even the drink currently pumping through his veins. It never was. As he gazes into deep azure orbs, his breath hitches and he finds himself disconnected from his thoughts, his body. He is weightless; a heavy burden he never realized existed is lifted from his shoulders like a wool coat on a hot day. Pupils dilated, elevated pulse, startling realizations. Diagnosis: Lo—no, not now. Memory palace, front and center.

Suddenly he's coming, and he cries out John's name over the rush of emotions overflowing from his skull. A few moments more, and John scrunches up his face, his mouth looking so kissable that Sherlock lifts his head greedily and swallows the moan of John's release.

They do not speak; there _are_ no words. Sherlock debates spilling his sudden truth, but his mouth clamps shut and his lips tremble from the exertion of keeping quiet. Better time, better place. So he remains silent as John slips out of him and falls onto the bed, a contented sigh spilling out of his lips. They really _should_ clean up, but Sherlock doesn't particularly want to move at this moment.

Sherlock remains silent as John's eyes slip closed, and he keeps his mouth shut as John's expression clears and his breath evens out. His lips are sealed even though his mind is screaming loudly, his inner voice saying all that he cannot conjure into words, and he is voiceless as he slowly slips into a troubled sleep.

OoO

_5. Morning Breath_

For once in his life, Sherlock doesn't want to open his eyes. It _could_ be the splitting headache or the way his eyes seem to have crusted over in his sleep. It _could_ be the common ailment of not wanting to get out of bed in the morning. Or it _could_ be the warm body sleeping next to him and breathing hot air into his face. In all likelihood, it's probably the latter.

Sherlock scrunches up his nose and talks without moving his body or opening his eyes. "Your breath is positively putrid."

He can feel shifting in front of him and a groan. "Out of all the things to say, you comment on my morning breath?"

"Yes, well, it's hard to miss," Sherlock states matter-of-factly and rather cheekily.

"Yours isn't that great either," comes John's voice, but he sounds amused instead of offended and it makes Sherlock frown.

"Considering this is _my_ bed, I'm sure I have a right to comment on the goings-on."

"Well, this is your bed but it's my—you know what," John sounds frustrated now. "It's impossible to have a conversation with you when your eyes are closed like that."

"Is that so," Sherlock says, just to be contrary. He tries to suppress the smile that suddenly wants to break out on his face. Now he _really_ wants to open his eyes, to see the expression on John's face.

"Bastard. You leave me no other choice, then."

And then something warm is on Sherlock's mouth, and he realizes that it's a pair of lips. _John's_ lips. His eyes pop open, and the shorter man breaks the kiss. Sherlock reaches his hand up to run a finger over his moistened and tingling lips. "What was _that_ for?"

"Well, it worked, didn't it?" John says airily, and fails to hide his smile.

"Right," Sherlock says warily, eyeing the man in front of him. John appears to be no worse for wear, which leads Sherlock to believe that either the man defies the laws of nature and/or physics (which Sherlock has to admit he occasionally wonders), or he wasn't entirely drunk in the first place. Sherlock, in contrast, feels like his brain is going to explode in a million tiny bits that will splatter all over the walls of his room. Mrs. Hudson would _not_ like that, he imagines. An image of her lecturing John while cleaning up the mess makes Sherlock cough to hide his laugh.

"Are you all right, mate?" John asks, raising an eyebrow.

"It depends on your definition of 'all right'," Sherlock admits. "If you mean that I'm able to function, then yes, I am perfectly capable. If you mean that I'm able to think coherently, then yes, you're quite right. If you mean that I'm able to comprehend just what went on last night, I would have to say _no_, not in the slightest."

John frowns, his posture suddenly stiff. His tone is defensive when he replies, "Does that mean you regret it?"

"No," Sherlock finds himself saying, and he's surprised to realize that it's true. "I guess it was a successful…experiment."

"You know it wasn't an experiment, right?" John eyes the detective, biting his lip. "I've actually wanted to do that for quite some time. I just never thought you would agree."

"I know," Sherlock states simply and again, honestly. Really, he isn't surprised. But knowing something and ignoring the signs are completely different things. Sherlock is sure that he knew even when they first decided to share a flat, knew it the first time John looked at him with _eyes glazed over, pupils dilated, shortness of breath, flushed face, smile entirely genuine and infuriatingly attractive_. However, as he stated at the beginning, he's married to his work. Utterly and incomprehensively married.

So why does he suddenly feel like smiling?

"I want to do it again," John says slowly, watching the detective closely, as if searching for some sort of signs. _Signs of what_?

"I know," Sherlock says again, looking steadily into John's eyes.

"I love you," John whispers.

"I know."

Sherlock immediately knows that it's the wrong thing to say when hurt flashes across John's face, and the dirty-blonde shoots up straight. "Never mind."

Just as John leans forward to leave, Sherlock catches his arm. "Stay."

"Why?" the shorter man asks, his voice cracking slightly. Sherlock's eyes roam John's face, searching for clues as always. _Breathing heavy, pupils dilated, flushed face, avoiding my eyes, John I need to find some way to tell you—_

"Because I need to solve this," Sherlock says, and he hopes that John will read the message he's trying to say within the words. "My work has come above all else, leaving me closed off to certain…situations. Feelings. I need more data. I'll always need more data when it comes to you."

"What are you saying?" John asks, and Sherlock can see the hope in his eyes.

"What I'm trying to say," Sherlock replies, and clears his throat. "Is that I wouldn't be opposed to collecting more data."

John frowns. "I can't do this if it's just some sort of experiment, Sherlock. That's not how it goes. Not normally, anyway."

"Since when have you and I ever been _normal_?"

"Right, I forgot. High-functioning sociopath."

"You misunderstand," Sherlock sighs in frustration, bringing two hands up to rub at his temples. This line of conversation is getting him nowhere. He tries for a different tactic.

Sherlock leans forward and captures John's lips with his own. The shorter man makes a small noise of surprise, but immediately kisses back with vigor. John's hand rests on Sherlock's cheek, and when they pull back, both are breathing heavily. John doesn't remove his hand.

"I think I understand," John says with a smile. "For a man who prides himself on his words, you're shit at confessions."

"Yes, well, I haven't had much practice, have I," Sherlock snaps, a small frown on his face.

John hold up his hands in a placating manner. "Relax, I'm not trying to insult you. I was just teasing. We really need to work on your people skills."

"As I've been told," Sherlock says dryly, a small smile on his face. In a flash, his expression is replaced by one of weariness. "So you're saying yes, then? To my experiment, I mean."

John rolls his eyes. "Yes, Sherlock, I'm agreeing to your experiment."

"Good," Sherlock states, "because we have approximately three hours and eight seconds before we have to go to work. I suggest we use that time..._wisely_."

"Is that a come-on?" John asks, biting his lip to hide a smile. Sherlock sees it anyway.

"Did it work?" Sherlock asks in reply, raising an eyebrow.

John flushes. "Surprisingly, yes."

"Well, then. 'Off we go', as they say."

"You are the least romantic person on the _planet_," John groans, but his tone is light and teasing.

"That, my dear Watson, is most certainly inaccurate. I'm sure there are many—" John cuts him off with a kiss, which is highly effective and Sherlock files it in his mind palace for future reference.

Approximately three hours and thirty minutes later, they are late for work.

OoO

_1. Amusement_

People notice, and Sherlock can't help but make a game of shocking them. It's really _too_ easy, after all. John seems surprised at first, even disapproving, but Sherlock can see from the excitement in his eyes that the shorter man sees the appeal of the challenge. The game is afoot, after all.

Lestrade's eyes widen exponentially and comically when Sherlock playfully smacks John on the arse when passing by. Sherlock's sharp gaze dares him to disapprove, but the man laughs rather nervously and gives him a thumbs up.

Donovan seems rather unsurprised (and even rolls her eyes) when Sherlock kisses John on the cheek and whispers things in his ear that make the blogger turn red. The consulting detective is a bit put out at her nonchalance but figures you can't win them all.

Anderson requires extra torment, and he looks predictably shocked when Sherlock suddenly grabs John and starts making out right then and there (the hand squeezing John's buttocks is just icing on the cake, really). Sherlock gleefully notes that the examiner looks positively sick when they pull apart. The slight twitching of his lips as he turns away, however, informs Sherlock that Anderson won't be a problem. It doesn't deter Sherlock from his carefully thought out plans of keeping the man on his toes, however.

When they get home, and Sherlock sheds the completed case off of his thoughts along with his coat, John prepares him tea, and they sit in their respective chairs in a comfortable silence.

John, as always, is the first one to speak. His tone is amused. "Did you have fun today?"

"Immensely," Sherlock bites his lip to keep from grinning, and he knows John is hiding a smile despite his attempt at a stern look.

"Are you going to continue making Anderson feel uncomfortable?" John asks, raising an eyebrow.

"At every possible moment," Sherlock answers seriously, but his tone is light and he's sure John reads the amusement in his voice. "You should know all this by now."

"You're right," John concedes. "But there _is_ one thing I _don't_ know."

"And what _thing_ is that?" Sherlock asks, raising a dark eyebrow.

"How are we going to tell Mycroft?"

"Oh," Sherlock says, and he leans in and whispers conspiratorially. "I was thinking something to do with his umbrella and ruining household items."

John gasps, scandalized. "I'm pretty sure he would kill you. And me. And then you again, for good measure."

"That's why," Sherlock lowers his voice, "I have insurance."

He nods his head to the right, where a small white package is resting inconspicuously on the table. John mouths, _'insurance'_, and raises an eyebrow. "_Cake_? That's how you're going to get his approval? By bribing him?"

"I'll have you know that it's worked on several occasions," Sherlock sniffs, crossing his arms.

"You're barking mad, you know that?"

"Quite, as I've been told repeatedly and firmly."

At this, John smiles and snickers, and Sherlock can't help the grin that appears on his face. Soon they are both laughing, and Sherlock can't believe why he never did this sooner. Sharing secrets, blowing the dust off of his emotions. Being with John (whether as an acquaintance, or as a friend, or as a lover) has certainly changed the way Sherlock views the world, and he finds that he rather likes this new direction in his life.

"So what are we going to tell your mother?"

Sherlock grins. "Well, we get an umbrella…"

"You sick, sadistic person," John gasps, scandalized.

"You knew what you were getting into," Sherlock shoots back.

John rolls his eyes. "Unfortunately, yes."

"Do you regret it?" Sherlock can't help but ask, his breath stalled as he waits for John's answer.

John looks him in the eyes, but his tone is light when he says, "Unfortunately, no."

"I can't tell if that's a compliment, or an insult."

"With you, it's always both."

After their chuckles die down, Sherlock contemplates the recent turn of events and his surprising reaction. He looks over to John, who is engrossed in the newspaper. Sherlock records his own thoughts: _Shortness of breath, inability to think, that jumper looks quite good on him but I can't let it go to his head, and finally: I was doomed from the moment I met him._

Experiment conclusion: _Inevitable success_.


End file.
